Mother of All Beauty
by blankfaze67
Summary: Something unusual is going on in Miami, Florida, and the Winchesters are deadset on figuring out. But, what they find haunting the darkened streets is not merely supernatural, but much worse.


AU: I sadly do admit I own no characters in this story. But, moving on...

Timeline: Supernatural: Season 3, after "Mystery Spot". Dexter: a little way before season 1 and the infamous Ice Truck killer. If there are any inconsistincies, please let me know and I'll be happy to fix them.

The Mother of All Beauty

.

.

.

.

Chapter 1

There was a flash of light behind Dean's eyelids, a glimpse of great bright eyes blinking before him, angry- deceitful, resentful.

They were yellow.

Someone screamed. Well, it wasn't much of a scream- more like a short cry, or an outburst, and that was it: he allowed to believe that it was he that had made such a sound as he had woken. There was no more reason to disbelieve his own capabilities of fearing anything anymore.

_Dreams. _He hissed inside his head. (But it was what awaited him in such a few short months that scared him the most.)

He hated dreaming. Sighing, he turned to Sam's motionless form, watching his baby brother try fitfully and with no avail to rest his lengthy limbs in some type of comfort. No, he just hated nightmares, and it seemed it was as though that was all he ever seemed to have these days. For a moment, as he leaned his head against the backseat, he believed that he was beginning to have the same problems as Sam. Or, maybe, he was just going crazy.

And he wasn't quite sure which one he preferred the most.

_God, I need a drink. _

But, as he checked his watch, he realized it was on the verge of five a.m, and although he couldn't care less that it was too early to drink, he couldn't, for the sake of the job, drink, and not to mention he had to drive, and if he handed Sam the keys, he was positive he would smash it into an abandoned house again or something.

No, no chances this time, and there was definitely little chance that he was going to go back to sleep now. He took out a flashlight from the glove compartment, carefully removing it from the set of cell phones they'd acquired over the months.

He flipped the switch to the torch on and it fizzed and flickered like an angry bug; he shook it, and it came to light. There was a map somewhere in the car. After a few minutes of rummaging under hamburger wrappers and newspaper clippings, he found the map of Florida. Anything to get out of Broward County.

VVVVVV

"You see that guy?" Dean whispered to Sam. It was in the middle of the day, sunny Florida weather, and him. This man with the family. Something was weird about him, Sam propped his thoughts. Yeah, something was fucking off about him.

"Yeah, so?" Sam said, even though he very well knew what Dean meant, despite the fact that he was munching down some chilly-cheese fries. The sea weather apparently made him more apt to eat.

Dean couldn't explain it. God, if only he could. He sighed, before licking his fingers a little too noisily.

"Dude, seriously?" Sam scrunched his nose in slight disgust, watching his brother smiling with his cheeks an inch out from his face.

Something like "bitch" passed from Dean's mouth, but it was muffled, and Sam was too occupied with the blond-haired man sitting on the checkered blanket some yards away. There was a woman with them, but she did not look distraught- only pale and almost as if weary, and wearing something maybe his mother would have worn a long time ago had he known her. They sat a few feet away from each other, as far as the blanket would allow them, but they seemed comfortable, at ease, as they watched two children run around them.

Sam wondered if this could have been he and his brother at one point in their lives, had it been left untouched, unharmed.

"Come on," Dean spoke finally, tossing the remainder of his food in the back, which was simply the wrapping and the cardboard box. "Let's check it out for a little longer- just another day."

"What? Dean, do you remember what you told me back at Bobby's?" His younger brother remarked. "There are more important things to worry about than this guy. He's harmless."

That burned on his tongue. He felt the lie like a dead fish in his hands, slimy and unsavory and smelly. He tried ignoring it.

"Well, I don't believe it," the older grumbled, starting the engine. It purred feverishly, as if the car itself was tired of idling by, wanted to move.

"We hunt monsters, Dean. Not humans, remember?" Sam tried to sway.

"We've only been here a few hours. Come on, a little sun, some sand in your bunched boxers, and a whole lot of bikinis." Cheekily said.

They sped from the parking lot, away from the blonde-haired man.

"And a few hours is plenty enough time, Dean. We came here on a whim about some pedophile gone missing. I say, good riddance."

"A murderer, too," Dean murmured, before adding with more hype, "And another one went missing last month. There's something fishy going on."

"Maybe they're all ditching Florida for California, but it isn't our business. We have more important things to do."

Sam sighed again for almost the millionth time that day, Dean thought, and he couldn't help but ask, or demand, "What, Sam?"

The younger shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Fine, I agree with you, okay? But, Bela could be all the way across the country by now while we're still here. Time's running out…"

He'd caught Dean's attention, now. The older couldn't contain the anger seeping through him. "I know, okay! I know! But how else am I supposed to deal, Sam? Maybe I need to save my own skin, but that doesn't mean I can't save a few others on the way."

"All right," Sam remarked, "Fine. But we need the Colt, and we need to get it soon."

"Great!" The older responded, "I think like this plan."

Sam murmured, "I thought you wanted to be saved, Dean. I thought…" And then he remembered the Trickster's words, the cruelty of them, the truth raging through them. His voice caught, and he was silent the remainder of the drive.

VVVVVV

He wanted to badly, so urgently, so fervently, for it to be the night- _the _night. He meant it, he really did. He wanted to see their wrongdoings, their falsehoods, their shames, the _real _them. He'd followed them nearly half way across the country, and in their path their followed death and destruction, but the problem didn't consist of why- they were orphaned fools, perhaps. He didn't care why, much like why he didn't want to care why he was the way he was- it just _was_, and sometimes he wanted to leave it at that.

No less, he couldn't. He never could stop searching for answers, if only he broke through his exterior first, told himself it was for the better- maybe to fix himself, to make himself a true human, not a dreadful, decrepit monster…but a clean monster. The cleanliness, he reminded himself, was to keep him real, to keep him from thinking he was the same as a carnivorous blood-sucking animal.

It rarely ever worked. It was just part of the Code, and he'd follow it. He always did, always had to, always wished he didn't have to.

They were out there, killing, slaughtering, raping- who knows what else. Animals, his mind raced, and the blood in his veins pulsed with agonizing intensity. He'd tried to see his blood before, tried to imagine it flowing from his veins, pooling around him like long tendrils of blackness that would soon engulf him, drain his life. He wondered if this would satiate his thirst, the direness of his Need. And then there was a knife's handle at his fingertips, the blade gleaming, and he was slashing at the wrapping around his chest, and he was running, he was free. He would be free.

And his Need wouldn't engulf him until he was ready. And he kept driving, the radio now nothing but static. Recognizable harmonies of Mozart alien music. Good, he'd rather listen to March, and he flipped the stations. Static, static, and voices, so many voices- crying, screaming, and his heart suddenly pounded, as if the words made sense to him even though he didn't understand a single syllable, single anything. He flipped the radio off and leaned against the driver's seat, head pounding against the headrest, as if he could beat the haunting voices from his mind.

Was it here, finally…?

The road stretched before him, the headlights illuminating the path chosen for him. If he turned them off…where would he go? Everything behind him was darkness, and he listened to the voices inside his head. Were they there…for him? Were they his victims, come to finally take him away?

God, no, he screamed from the inside. What superstitious fuck would he have himself believe simply so the imposter in him would feel the truth of guilt. There was none, and they were gone.

Gone. He flipped the simple four-letter word in his mind- just a word, a fucking word and that was it. Had it meaning, had it truth, had it justification?

He gritted his teeth, turned the radio off, and continued driving. Glancing through the rearview mirror, he saw a pair of headlights swim over the horizon. Perfect. Once he lost them he could check their motel room again just to be sure. The sick fucks wouldn't last long.

VVVVVVV

"This guy is fucked, Dean," Sam couldn't contain his disgust any longer, "He is so…" So they'd done their research, followed a follower. Found nothing, but felt compelled.

"Sam," Dean found it time to interject, "Whatever he's done we haven't been able to prove it yet. We should lay low." Because they hadn't found shit on him- nothing in his apartment, but they'd go again tonight when the man disappeared.

"Late night at the office- seems pretty clear to me." Sam muttered under his breath. Nothing seemed to be able to calm him, and never- in all his life- had he felt such rage boiling under his skin, pulsing through his veins- not since Jessica died. He'd fought hell of a lot scarier things- ghosts, werewolves, shape shifters, Azazel- but no, this- this was much worse, he realized. This man was _human_, and for all this, this _man _was creating chaos much more horrific than anything he could ever imagine.

Dean watched his brother as he fumed in the passenger side seat. Just two days ago Sam would have walked away from the coasts of Miami without a second glance, ready to berate Dean for whatever it was they were after, as if Dean was too old of a hunter to see things clearly, and if anything, to move on. Now, it seemed, that the tables had taken a quick one-eighty degree turn; it was Dean, now, that was telling his brother to calm, to slow, to _think_. Dean knew very well that the man driving down the road ahead of them was dangerous, but how much? The brothers could not answer this specifically, because it was still such a hazy little world that encompassed Miami.

VVVVVV

Dexter slept fitfully. It was an unusual thing; he usually could sleep so well, so dreamlessly when in the companionship of Rita. Her warmth was engulfing, enflaming, and encouraging to his sanity- whether he wanted to admit it or not. He felt comfortable, almost safe with her- especially tonight.

They hadn't had sex yet, if that was an important sort of fact, so they slept at opposite sides of the room: her, on the couch where she'd fallen asleep after the movie, and he, after he'd moved to leaver her space, on the uncomfortable armchair perpendicular to the sofa. He watched her sleep, watched her chest rise and fall. Innocence was premarital, innocence was Rita untouched by him, unscathed by the monster always at the foot of her bed, holding her elbow close, playing with her children.

Innocence- he was not.

He closed his eyes, and dreamed of monsters coming to get him.

VVVVVV

In the morning, Sam went to get coffee from the nearby gas station. It was bitter no matter how much sugar and crème he added. Then he tossed it away and began his walk back to the motel where he and Dean were lodged. Hopefully, Dean wouldn't mind the cup of coffee in his hand; at least he had stuffed handfuls of packets of crème and sugar in his jacket pockets.

No matter the efforts because someone had suddenly bumped into him, sent the crème and sugar falling to the pavement, and the coffee on his shirt. He hissed, dropping the cup to tend to the burning at his chest, as if there was a ghost trying to steal his heart.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" A voice resounded in his ears. From some preconceived notion, Sam tensed, suddenly forgetting the scalding coffee soaking through his thin shirt. He cursed Miami's humid weather already. "Here, let me get you something!"

He saw tanned hands blurring from pockets to pockets, reproducing white fluff. Kleenex. Sam took the tissues, but his eyes were too busy traveling up the man's arms- to a face that made Sam nearly freeze in terror. His breath caught for a second, and his eyes became glazed. He felt a horrible headache seizing his nerves, and without a second chance to run, he began to convulse from the muscle spasms that ran up and down his spine. He leant forward toward the blonde-haired man, unable to control his movements any longer. His head swam, as if he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't see anymore. It was a blur; it was an unattainable, unimaginable swirl of the universe that came crashing down upon his head.

There were voices, of the man, of Dean's, but he couldn't remember why he was there, and for the moment- it didn't matter. He heard more voices, heard guns, heard cars squealing. There was a beautiful girl somewhere in the image, blood, fear, and emptiness.

VVVVVV

What in fuck did he do? Dexter was panicking- just a little. Had he twisted a knife into the guy's gut? What the _fuck_? His mind was racing, and he wasn't sure whether to call the paramedics, or just run. But after laying Sam Winchester's head down over his lap, waiting for the fluttering of his eyes to cease, he breathed. They both did.

"Whoa there, kid." Dexter murmured. "You scared the shit out of me." He wasn't feeling himself, now.

Be _likeable._ The kid was smart, Stanford dropout, family of killers. It was just in the timing.

Sam groaned, feeling the headache slowly seep away, as if it had but simply pooled around him on the pavement- nothing but a bad nightmare at his feet- perhaps shackled to him.

"What…?" His mouth felt dry, parched, "What happened?"

Dexter thought about his answer, and a 'beware' sign listed before him in big and bold and red. He chose his words carefully.

"Don't know," he laughed almost nervously- not too nervously, not too slack. He smiled, but had his phone out and his hand shaking. Perfecto. "I'm calling the paramedics now."

"No, no!" The boy suddenly jumped, sitting up as though something had just bit him in the side. "I'm good, really! Migraines, you know."

"Never seen a migraine do that to a person before," Dexter leered, standing up as the boy did. "You sure- they can just check you up? A little prick there, a little scan there." He smiled, lips curving upward innocently.

"No," Sam replied, and then thought a moment; "Um, right- okay, I'm going to get going. Thanks, though, really. I'm good."

And before Dexter could offer the boy to buy another cup of coffee for him, he'd disappeared. Nonchalantly, Dexter picked up the styrofoam that once held the scalding bitter coffee now spilt on the asphalt, running like brown water into the niches of the pebbles and mixing with the oil of the pollutant cars of America, making the ground shimmer like a rainbow after a storm.

He didn't need the boy's DNA- had it already, and a grin still on his lips and one hand resting in his pocket, tossed it into the trash.

They were perfect. They were like him.


End file.
